Asking For Death
by Raphiael
Summary: You're not a saint. You're only a man. Rated for death and imagery.


**Asking for Death**

_Wrath is a sin,_ he reminds himself. _Elimine knows no wrath, no fury, only mercy and patience._

Mercy and patience. Mercy. And. Patience.

He has run out of such things in recent months, and he feels like a traitor for it. It showed only in little things for some time – an edge in his voice when he agreed to let the others lead the charge, a clench of his fists as he heard Serra comment _again_ on his looks, the slightest hint of mockery in his gaze as he stared down his lord's sister (it does _not_ make her his lady, despite the title he affords her) as she hinted at things of which she couldn't possibly be ignorant. Perhaps, some other time, they might not have stung him so; perhaps back at Caelin he could have forgiven. But months of watching his lord plot mad things despite his pleadings, months of treating wounds he can barely stand to look at and whispering blessings over bloated, graying corpses, months of trying not to scream too loud when an arrow catches him or an axe hits home because others are hurting more – they have taken their toll, and he is ashamed.

_You're not a saint. You're only a man._

It's easy to think that. Easy to use it as an excuse when he fails. Easy to murmur it in his head when he sees another body carted off to be hastily buried because he was too slow, or too clumsy with his work. Believing it is a different matter altogether, as he knows now.

It hadn't been right, to blow up as he had, to pull himself up into his lord's face and snap back at him for once, even though it had felt so good at the time.

"_I'm going alone. Stay here; you're still hurt from yesterday."_

"No, I won't stay behind! I'm just as capable as you are; stop acting as if I'm not!"

He hadn't meant to shout as he had, or glare as if he was looking at a murderer. It was a stupid matter. He was in the wrong. He can still barely walk after the wound he took yesterday, despite Priscilla's attentions; to go out there would have been foolish. Asking for death. But to hear it again from Raymond's lips, to see that look that screamed _you're such a burden to me_, no, he wouldn't take it.

"_We'll talk when I come back."_

"_I hope you __**don't**__ come back!"_

He'd covered his mouth and retreated to the shadows as soon as the words fell from his lips, not staying to watch Raymond's back move out of view. How could he say such things to _anyone_, never mind his lord?

He'll apologize as soon as Raymond returns. He'll do anything he's told: call him "Raven", stay in bed when he's feeling faint, smile and pretend he doesn't mind those offhanded mentions of being a "wife". He'll strive again to be that selfless saint, to forget the images of bowels strewn through the grass, to pretend he doesn't want to retch every time his magic kills a man.

His heart catches in his chest as he hears the telltale sounds of the others returning to the campsite. He hears Marcus' voice, greeting Eliwood, thanking the heavens for his safety. He hears Serra whining at Matthew – "next time, can I come?" – and hears Matthew sigh and make excuses. He hears Harken fret over Isadora's wounds, and Isadora assure him they aren't serious, that there are worse to be tended to, that she's only lucky she isn't among the dead.

He limps out of the tent, the words racing through his mind already. "_Please, listen to me." "I didn't mean anything I said." "Forgive me, my lord." _They aren't enough, but at least they're something. Better than doing nothing at all.

He stumbles into the clearing, the words nearly falling out before he even sees his lord – where is he? Perhaps Raymond is avoiding him. His words were harsh; he deserves no less. Even then, he would know that shock of red hair anywhere; he could spot the curve of those shoulders, the proud tilt of that chin from a mile away.

Perhaps that is why it takes a moment to process the shape he finally spies sprawled on the canvas ahead, one among many that have been recovered. There is little pride in a chin stained with blood, or in a throat flayed open by an arrow. There is no dignity in wide-open, rolled back eyes. And there is nothing left to hear him as he chokes out the words, "I'm sorry."

**Author's Note:** So, Lucius and Raven deathfics are really a dime a dozen, but I've never really felt any of them work with how I think of either of them. This is an edited version of a prompt fill on LJ's FE anon meme. Prompt was, _FE7: A couple (your choice; het/slash/femslash all loved) has a horrible argument before a big battle. One has to stay behind at camp while the other goes to fight, and the one staying ends the argument with something along the lines of "god damn you, I hope you never come back!" The other dies in battle. Break my heart, anon. _


End file.
